A Darker Music Read Online Free PDF Page A

that time he was a glamorous stud breeder.’ Her mouth moved, a downward twist indicating — what? Was it irony? ‘No, when Ellen died I was still a student.’ She drifted off, her face looking ancient again.
    Torn between wanting to keep her talking and not wanting to exhaust her, Mary fell back on social ritual and the inappropriate role of hostess. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Hazlitt?’
    Slowly Mrs Hazlitt came out of her daze, her face still bleak. ‘A cup of tea?’ Her tone changed to one of social parody. ‘A cup of tea would be awfully naice .’
    Mary laughed and pushed the kettle onto the hotplate, opened the firebox and poked at the coals to make the flames roar.
    When Mrs Hazlitt spoke again, she sounded thoughtful. ‘I think you and I might get along quite well, Mary.’
    Mary wasn’t sure what to say. Mrs Hazlitt must be her employer just as much as her husband was — surely most farming properties were partnerships these days? Friendship was a different matter. Still, friendship hadn’t actually been suggested, just getting along , which had to be part of the job anyway. ‘Yes, Mrs Hazlitt. I see no reason why we wouldn’t.’
    ‘Good. Then if we’re going to spend time together, I suggest you call me by my own name. I’m sick of being Mrs Hazlitt. My name is Clio — that’s with an i not an e.’
    Mary caught on. ‘As in the muse of … was it history? It’s a great name, especially when you might have been called Terpsichore.’
    ‘My father wanted to call my sister Thalia or Parthenope, but my mother put her foot down. My father compromised by calling her Penelope, after Ulysses’ long-suffering wife. He was an historian.’
    Mrs Hazlitt — Clio — seemed to be happier when she was talking about herself, and Mary offered her encouragement to go on. ‘What sort of historian?’
    ‘Ancient history. Greece and Rome, mainly.’ Her hands were playing with a fold of her gown. ‘My mother was a student of his. My father was very glamorous, a bit like Paul. He was Italian: Orlando Lanza.’ She let the name roll out with full Italian emphasis. ‘Needless to say, I was called Mario at school, especially when I started learning music.’ She settled deeper into the chair. ‘My mother was Welsh and a very good singer.’
    Mary moved about, making tea, finishing her tasks, listening attentively. Now that Clio had found an audience, she didn’t need any prompting, and her deep, melodious voice was easy to listen to.
    ‘One of my best childhood memories is of my mother singing. She was a deep mezzo, almost contralto. She often sang the old hymns, sometimes opera.’
    Mary handed her a cup of tea. She’d found an assortment of English bone china and delicate Japanese porcelain cups and saucers, and used the prettiest ones for Mrs Hazlitt. Clio. The one she’d chosen today was a shallow cup and matching saucer, hand-painted with pink chrysanthemums.
    Clio accepted her tea. ‘These cups belonged to Ellen. All the pretty things were hers. I’m glad you’re using them.’
    ‘Did they bring a lot of stuff from England?’ Mary cut slices of orange cake and took pieces of shortbread from the tin.
    Clio placed her cup carefully back into its saucer, turning it so that the flowers on the cup lined up with those on the saucer. ‘Yes. They weren’t poor. Ellen’s diaries are still here. When I first came here I spent a good deal of time reading them. Paul let me know from the start that I had a lot to live up to.’
    ‘That must have been interesting,’ Mary murmured, hoping that she might have an opportunity to read those diaries but not venturing to ask.
    Clio seemed to read her mind. ‘If you’re interested, please feel free. The papers are in the bookcases in that front parlour. There’s Edgar’s family Bible, too. His family were well-to-do farmers on the South Downs. Which is why we breed Southdowns to this day, direct descendants of the sheep Edgar and Ellen brought with